


foxhunt

by Anonymous



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Korean mythology & folklore, Minor Character Death, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 22:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20161024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You are a kumiho?” he asks quietly, when the silence stretches on and it doesn’t seem as though she has any intention of speaking.--a sort of korean mythology fusion





	foxhunt

It’s one of _ those _ nights. It’s been building up the whole day, so he knows even before nightfall that he’s done everything he can and it’s still not enough. It doesn’t stop him from _ trying_, though—doesn’t stop him from doing everything he can to make his father angry, to make his father look at him and only him. He already knows that it won’t work. He already _ knows_, but that doesn’t stop the hate from curling in his stomach when he sees his father lead his siblings one by one to “individual training” — _ that’s just a nice way of saying “torture sessions,” _he thinks, sneering underneath the gag tied around his mouth.

His father had left him for last.

The rope chafes on his skin when he shifts in the chair. His eyes are wide open, but he cannot see through the blindfold tied around his head; he strains his ears, but he cannot hear through the earplugs. 

He does not know where he wants to go; all he knows is that he wants to _ leave_—he doesn’t want to be here anymore, doesn’t want to stay in this room the whole night, suffocating slowly in this silence, this darkness. 

The sensory deprivation used to scare him, used to leave him sweating and shivering, sobs crawling up his throat with no way of leaving. Now, it takes only seconds for him to push away the panic that threatens to choke him.

Now, he clenches his hands into fists and concentrates on going somewhere, anywhere. 

And he knows it works when he feels the chill of the night air on his skin, when he no longer feels the rope digging into his arms and his legs. He reaches up and rips off the blindfold, takes out the earplugs, unties the gag—he throws them onto the ground and grinds them into the dirt under his feet. 

It only takes him a few seconds to ascertain his whereabouts, and another few seconds for him to decide to walk back to the house instead of traveling instantly to where it lies on the other side of the village. His father will check on him, he knows, just as well as he knows how much trouble he will get into for leaving the house without permission. And for a second, he contemplates leaving—he thinks about walking through the village gates that are only a few steps away, thinks about leaving behind that house that only brings hate and pain, thinks about _ freedom. _

But the thought leaves as quickly as it had come—he cannot leave his siblings to suffer alone. He loves them too much. It’s the only good thing he’s learned how to do, growing up in that house. He learned how to love, how to protect, how to turn his father’s wrath solely onto him so that it does not affect the others.

(He’s learned so many things from that man; he is only thirteen, but he knows how to kill a person without bloodshed, how to torture a person, how to interrogate a person and receive only the truth—and he thinks he would have fallen too deep into that darkness were it not for the love he clings to with all his might, the determination to keep his siblings safe that is etched in his bones.)

But for now, he is free, and so he meanders through the dirt paths, his hands shoved into the pockets of his striped pajama pants, staring up at the stars that litter the sky. All the houses and shops are closed and dark—no one in their right mind would be awake at this time of night. 

He lets his feet take him wherever they want, wanders through side roads and alleyways as though he has all the time in the world. No one is awake, but for him.

Or at least, that’s how it should be.

The street he turns into should be empty. But it isn’t. There is a woman standing there, her back facing him, her black hair long and straight. Her skin is white. She seems almost like a doll, he thinks, but she is much prettier than the animated doll that acts as his mother. A dark, viscous liquid drips down her forearm from the thing in her hand and soaks into her sleeve. There is a body at her feet—a young man, his face frozen in shock, blood pooling under him from a hole in his chest.

It’s only then that he realizes that the strange thing in her hand must be the man’s heart. She must feel the presence of another person, because she turns and stares straight at him, her dark eyes calm. Blood drips steadily down her chin, and he realizes now why the heart in her hand is so oddly shaped.

He watches as she moves away from the body towards him, her steps slow and silent, until she is looming over him. He pushes away the instinctive fear that rises—he refuses to show weakness in front of this deadly creature. 

He does not flinch at the sight of her nails, long and sharp, when she gently takes his chin in her clean hand. He does not react when she tilts his head up to study his face in the moonlight. Her thumb brushes lightly over the bruise marring his cheek, where his father’s cane had hit him before he could react quickly enough to jump away.

The first of his “individual training” sessions of the day.

“You are a kumiho?” he asks quietly, when the silence stretches on and it doesn’t seem as though she has any intention of speaking. 

The nine-tailed fox blinks slowly, dips her head forward in a small nod.

“Would you be willing to eat someone for me?” he blurts out, somehow managing to sound as polite as possible, because he doesn’t want to offend such a dangerous creature. 

And he hadn’t planned for this at all, hadn’t ever planned for anything outside of turning eighteen and finally getting out from under his father’s thumb so that he can heal and help his siblings heal. But this is good too, and when will he ever get another chance like this? 

“I’m sure he’s tasty,” he adds, almost desperately, reaching up to grasp her hand and pull it away from his chin so he can hold it instead. “This way,” he says, leading her to the mansion that lies on the tallest hill. She follows, unresistant. Her hand is cold and smooth, and he is strangely comforted by it. Hope blooms in his chest as the mansion comes into view.

He does not use his power; he does not know how she will react to it.

“You are the child of a god, are you not?” the fox-woman asks suddenly, her voice smooth and low. 

“I am.”

“Why do you not kill this man yourself?”

“I cannot.”

If he does, then the family will fall apart. He will have torn them apart.

“Why should I not eat you instead?”

“If you so wish,” he says, “you may eat me after you have eaten him. But—” 

He stops, turns to face her, stares into eyes that only show an innocent curiosity. 

“Do not eat my brothers and sisters,” he demands, pleads, and after a pause, the fox-woman nods.

“I swear I will not.”

Foxes are tricksters, he knows, but he feels, somehow, that she is telling the truth. And even if she weren’t, he could use his power and take her far away after she is done with his father. It does not matter if he dies, as long as his father dies with him—his siblings will not need him, after that, and he knows that they do not love him the way he loves them.

They walk silently through the mansion, and he glances into his siblings’ rooms as they pass by—the anger in him coils tightly when he sees the wounds on their faces and their hands. Hatred bubbles in his stomach at the tears on Klaus’s face, who cries even in his sleep.

“What is your name?” the fox-woman asks, as he leads her to the room where his father sleeps.

“My name is Number Five,” he answers, and the woman gives him a long, considering look.

He pushes open the door. 


End file.
